House of Straw, House of Sticks
by sbgrrl
Summary: Post 5.01 Sympathy for the Devil. When all was said and done and the dust had started to settle, they realized there was no roof on their home and their walls were crumbled.


_A/N: Been bummed lately. Depressed state equals downer stories. Just warning you there is no fainting here._

**House of Straw, House of Sticks**

He wasn't even supposed to be alive right now. He wasn't supposed to be standing in a parking lot, cold and alone and terrified. Sam had screwed up everything and he didn't know what he was supposed to do about it now. He had gone into the fight with Lilith being certain his fate was sealed, that it was over for him so the rest of the world, so Dean, could survive. Instead, Sam found himself adrift in uncharted and choppy waters. Everything was in opposites. He wasn't dead. The world hadn't been saved. Dean _had_ survived, but the part that made him Sam's big brother hadn't.

In clean and sober hindsight, the perfect vision Sam had had in his head of how things were supposed to be made little sense. He couldn't even say with certainty when he'd blurred the line between rational and fucked up beyond belief too severely to see it was happening. He thought, a terrible pit in his stomach, that it had been long before he started sucking down the demon blood. It might have been during his one hundredth bottle of Jack Daniels. It might have been the second he'd let himself be used by Ruby and hadn't cared about or truly considered the consequences.

Most likely, it had been watching Dean get ripped to shreds by Hellhounds.

How didn't matter. His plan, Lilith, Lucifer rising to kill the world. None of those things were the problem. Sam had thought … he'd _honestly_ thought the anger he'd sensed bubbling under Dean's surface was about him starting the end of the world. It turned out that the apocalypse was not the straw that broke Dean's back. Sam knew he shouldn't be surprised by his brother's lack of trust, those words of harsh truth that still seeming to linger in the air around him. He should have seen it coming, but there he stood – stunned into absolute silence, feeling as if he'd been gutted. Dean spoke in absolutes. Dean was absolutes, all or nothing, black and white, right and wrong. And Dean was right. Dean was the one who'd been right all along.

It never once occurred to Sam that Dean would give up on him. Ever. That was unthinkable, impossible. Throughout Sam's whole life, the only constant he'd had was Dean. Even at Stanford and the way they'd left things, he'd known if he ever got into trouble one phone call would fix everything. No questions. His home had always been built of solid walls with a foundation of rock, no matter how far apart he was from it, and no matter how figurative it was. Dean was that for him. Dean was his home, all he'd ever known. Always, always. Now never. Maybe never again, and it was his own fault.

He stared as his brother leaned against the Impala for a second before climbing wearily into the car. Sam wanted to scream. He wanted to beg and plead, but he couldn't move. He could barely breathe. It was as if Zachariah had returned and stolen his lungs again, only this was so much worse. He wasn't supposed to be alive, but right now he wasn't sure he wanted to be.

Sam remembered it all differently now, as if it hadn't been him then, or as if the auto-detox had also cleaned up his memory. The last time he saw Dean before the convent replayed in his head like some horror movie, a nightmare he could never escape. _He_ had heard the word monster and nothing else. _He_ had nearly choked Dean to death. _He_ had met Dean's ultimatum the same way he'd met Dad's all those years ago, certain his brother had never understood him for one second of his life. _He_ had walked out the door. _He_ had chosen a demon. He'd done it all. With the power of Ruby's blood pumping through his veins, polluting the family bond of blood, he'd even thought _he_ was right. But all Sam had gone through and every reprehensible thing he'd done – it had all been wrong and now he'd lost the only thing that mattered.

It was the end of everything as Sam knew it, whether the world burned or not.

The roar of the Impala's engine coming to life made him skitter back a step. It sounded angry, fierce, as if it possessed sentience and agreed with Dean about everything. If Bobby of all people could be possessed, why not the car? Sam choked back his emotion, a ripple of amusement, an eddy of regret. He didn't know what to do. Dean was done with him. He glanced back at the hospital, looking for Bobby's room though it was across an entire wing. But he didn't have Bobby anymore either, not really. He'd seen it on his old friend's face. The things the demon wearing Bobby said held a grain of truth, and the things that Bobby said, crippled and broken in that hospital bed, held a grain of falsehood. The same thing as on Dean's, lesser but there. Sam had no one. Any time in his life he'd ever felt that way was wrong, because none of those times felt like _this_.

"You comin'?" Dean called gruffly.

And for a second, one brief, shining moment, Sam thought maybe … maybe Dean was back. Maybe Dean could forgive him after all. Maybe the walls of his home were still standing. His heart beat fast. He caught his brother's reflection in the side mirror of the Impala, and in reverse it was just as closed off and cold. Unforgiving and unwelcoming. He didn't blame Dean. Never. This was on himself. But, oh holy shit. This was real. This was happening. Tears burned in his eyes, spilled over and traced hot tracks down his face. He wiped them away. They were useless. He felt no better. He moved forward numbly, though he wanted to run in the opposite direction.

He didn't know if he could be around Dean. He didn't know if Dean could be around him. Not like this. Sam fumbled with the passenger door and all but fell into the car, keeping his eyes on the dash. Dean didn't say anything. There was nothing left to be said.

_You walk out that door, you don't ever come back_.

Remembering the words, the tenor of Dean's voice as he said them, Sam sucked in a breath. It was only now he understood, when it was far too late, that Dean had really meant it. He was dismayed when the sound seemed to echo through the car, pitiful and weak like he was.

Dean still didn't say anything to him, instead reaching for the tape deck.

Sam glanced over, a furtive gesture. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but what he found was Dean's profile, a purposeful look away. It turned out Sam's house was made of straw, and the monster that had huffed and puffed and blown it all down was him.

&-&-&

Dean was done. He didn't give a damn about the angels lying their fat faces off at him for months. He didn't give a damn about the apocalypse and how he and Sam had both had such a big hand in starting it. He didn't care about any of it. He was simply done. No more lies. No more playing anyone's patsy, not even for a fucking archangel of a god apparently too bored to care enough to do anything. Not for Sam. The only thing he could do now was fight for himself. Live and die by his own will, not some by some fated prophecy or machinations of powerful beings or because his father had told him when he was four that he was responsible for his baby brother. No one else was going to look out for him. Bobby was out of commission. Castiel he was the closest thing to an ally Dean had, but he couldn't say there was absolute trust there.

He leaned on the car, resting for a minute. Exhaustion enveloped him. Dean could take any number of beatings, go for days without sleep, and fight any damned evil monster on the face of the earth and keep on moving. This was how his life had been, and this was how his death had been. He'd fight until the day this war of good and evil killed him for good this time. But his weariness of late wasn't that kind of tired. It wasn't physical and it couldn't be fixed with a long nap. The fatigue he felt went deeper in a way he couldn't explain even to himself, like something had reached in and removed vital pieces of his soul. It hadn't been Alastair.

He looked across the lot toward Sam, who just stood there with slumped shoulders and a look on his face Dean couldn't say anymore was sincere. A year ago, it would have worked. It would have turned Dean to jelly. Instinct would have had him at Sam's side, because his whole life, there'd been this constant: protect Sam, save Sam. Family was everything. Family was the only home he had. After Mom died, there was still Dad and Sammy. After Dad died, there was always Sam and Dean would and did lay down his life for that kid.

But it turned out that his whole life had been dedicated to someone who would never do the same in return, maybe wasn't even capable of it. Months ago he'd waved the lies away because he hadn't wanted to admit they were being told. Now he might blame Sam's addiction to demon blood. He couldn't. He wasn't going to play that anymore. He wasn't going to find a way out of this for Sam, make excuses where there were none. He didn't have the energy. He didn't have anything in him saying it would be worth it in the end.

Yean, the foundation of Dean's existence had always been Sam, and the foundation of Sam's existence had also been Sam. Never him. Never Dad. He got it now. He couldn't trust his heart to something that would only hurt him. It wasn't Sam's fault, not really, that he'd grown up thinking he was the center of the universe. It wasn't Sam's fault he had never known all Dean wanted was for someone to love and protect him the way he did Sam. In away, it was mostly his own fault.

Dean wasn't angry with Sam. He wasn't _anything_ with Sam.

Looking away from his brother, Dean pulled the car door open and slid behind the wheel. This was it now, the familiar smell of leather and dirty socks and stale Doritos, this was all he had. The car, and maybe Bobby, possibly Castiel. Bobby at least had stopped, had pulled himself free from the grips of a demon to keep it from killing Dean. He had no doubts about Bobby at all. Castiel had taken his side when it counted. Dean's gut churned. He stared blankly ahead, waiting. He didn't know for what. The end of the world had already happened for him.

Dean wasn't sure how he was going to handle working side by side with his own brother. He would do it – lying bastard or not, Sam was a capable hunter. He couldn't turn his back on Sam, because Sam might stab him. But he couldn't cut Sam loose, either. There was no telling what his brother would do if left unguarded. Sam had already lain with demons. Sam had already walked out that door, and Dean was still the keeper. He turned the engine over and rolled down the window a crack.

"You comin'?" he asked.

He watched Sam startle, saw him hunch over a little. Dean watched his brother wipe at his face, two jerky motions. The surge of _protectSamsaveSam_ didn't rise up as it once would have. It was better this way. It was the only way. Oh, he loved Sam, even after all of the lies and betrayal. He'd still probably take a bullet for him. But he also hated Sam and he felt nothing for Sam at the same time. It shouldn't be possible, yet it was. Screw the damn apocalypse, the biggest battle was happening within him.

When Sam got into the car, Dean didn't move. He didn't say anything when he heard his brother make a soft hissing noise, like he was a wounded animal. He felt nothing. He shoved a tape into the deck, turning his face away as Sam looked at him. Soon they would have to find a middle ground, but not tonight. He couldn't figure it out tonight. Pulling the car out of the parking lot, he drove with no destination in mind. The streets were a blur.

"Whe … where're we going?" Sam whispered after about five minutes.

"I dunno," Dean said dully. "I've never dealt with the fucking apocalypse before, Sam. There isn't a roadmap."

Dean saw Sam flinch though he studiously kept his eyes focused ahead. No map. He was on new ground here, not alone but more alone than he'd ever been before. It didn't feel good or bad. He was numb. There was a vacancy in this proverbial motel.

"Dean…"

"Not now, Sam." _Not ever_, he thought, _we're never going there_. _No caring. No sharing._ "It's been a long-ass day, okay?"

For once Sam complied readily. He shut up, slouching into the seat like he'd done a million times before, staring out the window.

After a minute, Dean looked at his brother. He wouldn't let himself feel pity. He couldn't make room amid all the emptiness for guilt. The cornerstone of his house had crumbled right from under Dean's feet, the walls were made of sticks. The slightest breeze would have knocked holes into it. The tornado of Sam's betrayal had scattered and demolished everything, but he was the idiot who had thought sticks were structurally sound.


End file.
